Rise up and be Damned
by The Dissevered
Summary: After 8X23. They've been beaten, abused, gone insane, killed, and brought back. Still, the Winchester legacy lives on.
1. Prologue

Rise up and be Damned

Prologue

Short prologue is short. There will be longer chapters later on. Suggestions welcome. Criticism taken in stride. No, I do not have a beta. Sorry.

'_I should have brought him to a hospital_.' That's all Dean could think of as one day passed to two, and then to three and four.

'_I can still take him to a hospital_.' But what good could any of them do?

'_I should do research_.' And leave Sam like this? He couldn't do it. He couldn't.

Dean rubbed at the scruff that had been building up on his cheeks and chin, tired eyes and sore eyes staring at the very same lump of a brother who hadn't moved since he tore him away from the Last Trial.

Perhaps it was just familiarity – seeing him so still and silent, for days on end, up until whatever he was going through woke him up and sent him out to help him and – God damnit – Bobby. Despite all of the warnings of everyone else, of Castiel, of Death himself, Sam had risen and rallied; and yeah, they had needed help in the end to expel the demons of his mind – or the devil of his mind to be more accurate – but in the end, Sam was fine. He was okay. Dean had found a way to make it so, and he knew that he could do the same now. If only Sam _would just wake up_.

'_I don't know what the Hell to do anymore._' Dean approached his brother, all too aware of the creaks on the floor that followed every step, and put a hand against his forehead. If he could feel just one thing; just one twitch… anything….

"Please, Sammy. Give me a sign here." His voice croaked, "Anything. Please just… wake up."

The only sound he heard in response was that of the wind beating outside, a nearby tree tapping against the side of the bunker. And then, footsteps, and a hesitant knock.

Dean sighed and closed his eyes. "Yeah Kev, what is it?"

"I, um…" the door opened, allowing a bit of light to shine through the dark room – and Dean thought for a moment why he didn't bother turning on a light. '_Because why did it matter?_' "It's just… he said that he knew you guys. So, I let him in."

Dean turned and his eyes went wide, his jaw slung and gaping. It wasn't possible – it wasn't feasible. Yet, there he was, standing and looking like he had never left, like it was suddenly a million and two years ago again.

"Hello, Dean."

"Dad….?"


	2. Chapter 1 - My Bloody Reunion

Rise up and be Damned

Chapter 1

_AN: it's just the beginning, folks…..!_

"I tested him," Kevin explained. "I shot him with holy water, the whole…"

Dean stopped listening, if he even heard anything from Kevin's mouth at all. He had dreamt of his Dad returning. Hell, for years he had even dared to hope; they were the Winchesters, so everything was possible, right? Even so, he couldn't believe what was right in front of his eyes – so maybe he had gone over the deep end, finally. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, trying to think, trying not to think that the last place left for him was the loony bin.

"Sam?" John's voice broke through, and then his father – Dad – was stepping beside him, brushing against him momentarily, and then staring down at Sammy. His face wasn't angry, annoyed, but young… gentle… worried. It was almost like two million years ago. "Dean. What's wrong with Sam?"

"I…" Dean fought for control of his words, fought for some semblance for this to make sense. With the newly-directed piercing gaze of John Winchester, Dean found himself starting to ground himself. Old habits. "I don't know. I don't fucking know…" Just like that, a light seemed to turn on; Dad was back. Dad was home. "Where have you been – Dad; what happened? How the Hell are you even here-"

"Dean." That single word, name, syllable from John, with all of the power that he apparently never lost, forced the room into momentary silence. "Later. Right now, you tell me what happened to Sam."

"I don't know… Dad," he hadn't said that word in so long, it was almost foreign now. "Sam and I got into some pretty heavy shit after you…" he couldn't say it, even after all of this time – and it might not even be true, really; but then again, John hadn't aged. "We've been through a lot."

"That doesn't answer my question, Dean," John stated.

"No," Dean had to admit. "It doesn't."

Sam really did have bad timing. It was at that moment that he moved – gasped, and shot up so fast you would think he'd been brought back from drowning. Suddenly, John was forgotten, and Dean rushed to grip at his brother's shoulders, relief and panic fighting battles in his heart. "Sam, Sam! Hey, hey, calm down, I've got you." Sam was shaking so hard, breathing like he was trying to score a bit of air from a tight plastic bag. He felt his brother grip at his shirt, saw his eyes – bloodshot – search the room. "Sam, eyes up front! Come on!"

Sam's eyes met Dean's for only a moment before his head jutted forth, and he puked – blood.

"God damnit!" Dean didn't even try to move away from the blast and held especially strong as more blood continued to spring from Sam's mouth like a waterfall. It sprayed against him and the bed and the floors, copper-smelling and oh so familiar.

A hand went to Dean's shoulder and he jerked, met John's eyes for only a second. "I got it!" he snapped, and John had the better judgment to take a step back – or maybe it was psychological conditioning. Dean's gaze shifted back to his brother – his job, his life, and he steadied Sam's head, holding him as the blood poured less and less. "That's right, Sam, get it out, whatever the fuck it is, get it all out." Unless it was Sam's own blood, but Dean didn't want to dare think of that possibility." His panic eased as the flood reduced to small bouts of choking, and then to a slow drip. "That's it, Sam. Sammy?" He ran a hand over his brother's back, hoping it helped at least a little. "You got it all out of you? Sam?"

Sam looked at Dean, and Dean felt relief winning against the panic. "Sam? Some words would be nice." And that's when Dean realized that Sam wasn't looking at Dean, but behind him. "Sam, come on, stay focused. Please." Instead, his rebellious brother's eyes rolled to the back of his head, and Dean found himself cursing as he caught him, gently laying him back. "Sam… come on, shit!" Shakily Dean reached for a pulse, and luckily he found a weak on against his fingers. He put a hand on his chest and felt it rise and fall with each labored, but easing breath.

"Is he…?" John's voice came through, and Dean realized he was standing just three feet away.

"He's just sleeping," Dean explained, and he hoped like Hell that was the case. "I've got to clean him up."

"Dean. When you're finished, come down to the kitchen. We need to talk."

"No, sir. I'm not leaving Sam."

John seemed to consider this, or at least that's what Dean took as his silence. "All right." The sound of a chair moving across the room was heard. "Tell me while you get your brother cleaned up."

Dean was actually grateful that John wasn't asking to help, although he wasn't entirely sure why. He really didn't want to tell his father everything, though, but well… old habits. "Yes, sir."

Dean didn't actually tell John everything. He left it vague despite John's insistence for details, but there were just certain things he couldn't tell his father – such as how Sam drank demon blood and let Lucifer free, yet he still couldn't kill him. He couldn't tell him that he'd befriended a vampire, about the details that led to Joe and Ellen's death… and ruminating over them, coming close to saying one thing or the other, having to remember every instance even if it was a word or two – well, Dean ended up with a beer in his hand and eyes on a freshly-clean but still unconscious Sam.

"All right…" John broke the silence. "So…. Yellow-Eyes_ is_ dead…."

"Yes, sir."

"And Sam is dying."

They were the two most important things John got out of the whole thing, Dean supposed. "He's not going to die," Dean insisted. "He's not dying. He just… needs time or…" He ran a hand over his face. "Something…. whatever it is, I'll figure it out."

"Whatever it is, _we_ will figure it out." John spoke.

Dean looked at his father; he shouldn't have been shocked.

"So, lets' get started on this." John rose from his seat, stretching out the cricks in his body. John should have looked far older than he did. He should have been sporting all gray hair, wrinkles and old, tired eyes. To Dean, however, he looked just the same the moment he lost him – just a little older than themselves, by body's impressions. "That Kevin guy; he translated the trials from the tablet; there could be something on there to reverse them."

"He's already working on it," Dean explained. That was a feat that the Winchester could honestly classify as a miracle. The moment he'd brought Sam in and settled him long enough to explain to Kevin that he had to stop the trials, the guy was furious. More than that – he went mad, even threatening to destroy the tablet. His head pounded in memory of the chair that had actually been thrown at him, and he moved his neck as if to banish the ghost-sore.

"There's got to be something in all of these books," John insisted. "We're not just going to sit on our asses here, Dean."

Dean's jaw clenched, but he bit back the words he wanted to say. "That was the plan, sir." The only problem was that that plan involved walking away from Sam.

"He's just sleeping," John stated. "Let him rest, Dean. We need to get to work."

TBC….


End file.
